Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Summer
I stabbed at my mashed potatoes, barely tasting them as I replayed the afternoon in my head.
The boy at the foster home—Malcolm. He barely spoke, barely even looked at me, but something about him stuck with me.
It wasn’t just the way he kept to himself or how he sat in the middle of all that noise, completely detached. It was his eyes.
I had never seen anyone with eyes that empty before.
“Summer,” my mom’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Eat your dinner.”
“I am.” I shoved a forkful into my mouth, though I barely chewed before speaking again. “That boy today—Malcolm—he’s the saddest person I’ve ever met.”
My mom sighed as she set down her glass of water. “Summer...”
“I mean it,” I insisted. “He barely spoke, but I could feel it. He just—he looked like he didn’t believe in anything. Not people, not himself, not even happiness.” I frowned, pushing my plate away slightly. “What happened to him?”
Mom hesitated, her fingers smoothing over the tablecloth. I knew that look—the one she got when she was debating whether to tell me something or not. She had a habit of keeping some of the harder stories from me, thinking she was protecting me. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. I could handle it.
“Mom,” I pressed. “Just tell me.”
She exhaled, nodding slightly. “Malcolm’s parents died in a car accident when he was six. He had no living relatives, so he was placed in the system.”
I blinked. Six? I couldn’t even imagine losing my parents at that age. I barely liked spending a weekend away from them.
She continued, “Since then, he’s been in and out of different homes, different families. Some returned him after a few months, others didn’t even make it that long. He was either too quiet, too difficult, or just... not what they wanted.”
I felt my stomach twist. “They returned him? Like a toy that didn’t work right?”
Mom’s expression was tight. “It happens more often than you think.”
That made me feel sick. I had grown up in a home where love was constant, where even when I was at my most difficult, my parents never made me feel like I wasn’t wanted. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to live every day thinking you weren’t good enough to keep.
“No one ever adopted him?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
Mom shook her head. “Kids his age rarely get adopted. Families want babies or young children. Someone they can mold into their own. Teenagers...” She trailed off, her gaze dropping for a second before meeting mine again. “It’s not fair, but the older they get, the harder it becomes.”
I swallowed hard, Malcolm’s face flashing through my mind. No wonder he looked so closed off. He wasn’t just sad. He was shut down.
“He’s built walls to protect himself, Summer,” Mom said gently. “He doesn’t believe anyone will ever stay.”
I set my fork down, suddenly not hungry anymore. “That’s awful.”
“It is.”
Silence stretched between us, and I could feel my mom watching me, waiting for me to process everything.
I didn’t know how to explain it, but hearing his story made something tighten in my chest. I had only known him for a few minutes, but it was like I could feel the weight he carried, and it didn’t sit right with me.
Most people would hear his story and feel sorry for him. But I didn’t want to pity him—I wanted to fix it.
I sat up straighter. “I’m going to make him smile.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yep.” I folded my arms. “I don’t care how long it takes, but I’m going to do it.”
She sighed, shaking her head with a small smile. “You can’t force someone to let you in, Summer. He has to want it.”
“Then I’ll make him want it.”
She let out a soft chuckle. “You’re as stubborn as your father.”
I grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Mom just shook her head, taking another sip of water.
I could tell she thought this was just another one of my little projects, like when I tried to teach our neighbor’s grumpy cat how to do tricks or when I insisted on becoming best friends with the girl who never spoke in my math class.
But this was different. This wasn’t about curiosity or proving something.
This was about Malcolm not believing in anything anymore. And I couldn’t accept that.
After dinner, I went up to my room, but instead of doing homework, I found myself lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him.
I tried to picture six-year-old Malcolm, standing alone in some unfamiliar house, waiting for someone to come get him.
Waiting for someone to say, “You’re staying. You’re mine.” But no one ever had.
I grabbed my phone and texted my best friend, Olivia.
Me: You ever met someone who looks like they’ve given up on everything?
Olivia: What?? Who are you talking about?
Me: A guy at the foster home. His name’s Malcolm. He barely talks. I don’t think he’s ever smiled in his life.
Olivia: So what? You’re gonna make him your new project?
Me: He’s not a project. He’s a person. And yes. I’m making him smile.
Olivia: You’re insane.
Me: Obviously. But you love me anyway.
Olivia: Unfortunately.
I smirked, setting my phone down. Outside, the summer air was warm, and I stepped out onto the porch, leaning against the railing.
A soft breeze rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, I heard the sound of laughter from a neighboring house.
Normal, happy sounds. The kind of things Malcolm probably hadn’t had much of in his life.
I pulled out my phone again and started searching. How to make someone laugh. How to break down emotional walls. How to get a quiet person to talk.
By the time I went back inside, I had a plan. I wasn’t just going to make Malcolm smile—I was going to make him talk, laugh, and maybe even believe that not everyone leaves.